The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton put the initiator away, got to his feet, climbed over the squat wall and headed along the street, keeping a good distance from the three figures but not letting them out of his sight. They were heading for Wandsworth Road only a couple hundred yards away. He would have to close up as they approached it or risk losing them in the busy street. He wondered if they had a car.This could all get very desperate very quickly. Where the hell was Sumners?

  Stratton took out his phone and hit a memory dial as he walked. It rang.

  ‘Ops here,’ said the operations officer.

  ‘Stratton. Give me Sumners.’

  ‘He’s not here, Stratton.’

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Stratton asked, unable to control his annoyance, which was unusual for him. It was a warning that the pressure was building. Secure phone lines were probably ringing all over the country by now. The PM was no doubt already pacing his office or on his way to a safe location out of the city. And Stratton was holding this whole thing together.Where were his operatives? They should have been arriving in their droves. Stratton wondered if Sumners hadn’t screwed up. The fine line between need to know and telling everyone was sometimes a difficult one to call. Stratton was glad he didn’t have to make those decisions. On an op like this Stratton should have just about every force available at his disposal, including stealth helicopters, a link into London’s video surveillance camera system, which literally covered the entire city and all the highways and motorways leading in and out of it, and cohorts of operatives tripping over each other. Instead he was alone. It was ridiculous.

  ‘I think he’s gone to the loo,’ the ops officer said.

  ‘Tell him the bio is foxtrot, that I have no idea where the fuck it’s headed, and if I don’t some get backup in the next two minutes I’m going to blow it to hell because I’ll have no fucking choice.’

  ‘I understand,’ the ops officer said calmly. ‘I’ll go and find him.’

  Stratton killed the call and pocketed the phone. You do that, he said to himself. This was bullshit. The operation was at the most crucial stage and the wheels were about to fall off it.

  Aggy, Bill and Brennan reached Wandsworth Road and turned left on to it. Stratton speeded up then slowed as he reached the junction. He was hoping there would be a shop or something he could use to get a reflection off, but there was nothing. He peeked around the corner and darted back like an amateur. They had been right there, all three, yards away, climbing aboard a crowded double-decker bus, and Aggy still had the briefcase. Stratton’s mind raced. He couldn’t get on board, Bill would see him. He was going to lose them. He felt the initiator in his pocket. Blowing them up along with a bus full of people was well within the price plan, but there was still another option he could play. There was always another option. It was all about figuring it out in time.

  He watched them move along the bus and Bill lead upstairs. The stranger with the limp paused to look behind him and out of the window. It was a warning to Stratton that the man was experienced and aware. By the stark lights of the bus Stratton got a look at his face. He knew him. A photograph perhaps? The man headed upstairs. Then the limp brought it all together.

  ‘Brennan,’ Stratton muttered to himself. A few weeks after the failed operation to snatch Spinks, Special Branch had come up with the identities of the players in the crashed van. Three had died; one shot through the chest and the other two killed by the impact of the crash. The one that got away, even though he had been shot through the thigh, was Brennan.

  Stratton watched as they headed towards the front of the upper deck and the bus started to pull out into traffic.

  He stepped out from his corner and watched it crawl away into traffic. Number 77A. He touched his jacket under his left arm, feeling his gun beneath, and moved to the street, scanning cars, looking for a candidate. A single occupant was wisest. The hard part about hijacking a car was finding a driver who didn’t look like they would put up a heroic fight or crash the car at the first opportunity. Women were not always an obvious choice. Stratton preferred to go for someone who actually looked hard. Chances were they weren’t. And if they were, then they might appreciate the consequences more graphically if the person doing the threatening looked serious enough. He saw a gum-chewing, tattooed skinhead in an old RS2000 that looked in good condition. This was his man.

  The car had slowed in the traffic as a direct result of the bus pulling out. Stratton opened the passenger door, pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster under his coat, and climbed in beside the skinhead, who was about to say something until he saw the weapon. Before he closed the door Stratton thought he heard his name being called. ‘Stop the car a sec,’ Stratton asked the skinhead calmly, who obeyed instantly.

  ‘Stratton?’ came the voice again. Stratton looked back along the pavement to see a chubby man in his early thirties in grubby clothes walking briskly towards him. There was something familiar about him.

  ‘Wilks,’ the man said as he approached the car.‘We worked togever couple years ago in Birmin’am.’ Wilks saw the gun in Stratton’s hand, ignored it and looked in at the skinhead. ‘Awright?’ he asked the skinhead, assuming he was an acquaintance of Stratton’s. The skinhead nodded quickly, wide-eyed.

  Stratton remembered Wilks. ‘A4?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. We got a message to ’ang aroun’ Wandsworth and Queenstown Road. Said you’d be abart.’

  ‘You got a car?’ Stratton asked quickly.

  ‘Yeah. Over ‘ere.’

  Stratton put his gun away. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to the skinhead and climbed out and shut the door.

  ‘That bus,’ Stratton said to Wilks, indicating the only one in the street. ‘Our target’s upstairs.’

  Wilks was a pro and instantly switched up gears.‘This way,’ he said and they hurried towards his car. ‘I was on me way ’a Brighton wiv me missus and two nippers when they called me. Did she kick up a stink or what? Gave me merry ’ell.’

  At the wheel of Wilks’s car was a young black guy wearing a grin that turned out to be a permanent feature. Stratton climbed in the front and Wilks the back. ‘Chaz, Stratton,’ Wilks said by way of quick introduction. ‘’At bus, me old mate,’ he pointed.

  Chaz also picked up on the urgency, started the car and bullied his way into traffic with practised ease.

  ‘Seventy-seven A?’ Chaz said in a Scouse accent. ‘Goes to Vauxhall, across the bridge,Tate Gallery, Parliament Square. Can’t remember where it goes then. Victoria or Trafalgar. One of them.’

  Stratton thought about that a moment. ‘Do you know what this is about?’ he asked them.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Wilks said. ‘All we know is there’s a right flap on, everyone’s at abaat ten thousand feet, an’ ’at whatever it is is real ’eavy.’

  ‘You armed?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wilks. Chaz nodded.

  ‘On the bus is a woman and two men. One’s a RIRA hitter. Extreme. Undoubtedly armed. Give him one sniff you’re not Kosher and he’ll take you out. The other’s MI5, but he’s a spy for RIRA. The woman’s one of us and she’s a hostage . . . ’

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell,’ said Wilks, seriously impressed. ‘It don’t get much ’eavier ’en ’at.’

  ‘They’re carrying a biological weapon that could wipe out London,’ Stratton added.

  Chaz gave him a quick glance. Wilks was temporarily speechless.

  Stratton’s phone vibrated. He put it to his ear. ‘Yes.’ It was Sumners. ‘I’m with two but I need at least four more cars,’ Stratton said. ‘Two snipers would be useful.’

  ‘Three teams should be with you in twenty minutes,’ Sumners said. ‘I’ll have two police snipers RV with the team commander asap.’

  Too much too late, Stratton thought. ‘Target’s on a bus that goes through Parliament Square.That’s Lawton, a RIRA hitter named Brennan and Aggy from South det. She’s a hostage. I used her to get Lawton out of the apartment for my recce and then Brennan entered the plot.’

/>   ‘I see. And the bio?’ Sumners asked. He didn’t need to know any more at this stage. The only time you lived in the past on an op was at the debriefing when it was all over. The bio was the only thing of importance, where it was and where it was headed towards. Sumners would ask about Aggy’s part in all this later.

  ‘They’re carrying the briefcase. I’m certain the bio’s in it,’ Stratton said.

  ‘We should soon know if it’s on the boat or not,’ Sumners said. ‘They’ll be hitting it any time now.’

  ‘What about the explosives?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘The boffins have been in touch with the Yanks and they’re still calculating. It’s not something anyone wants to take a guess at. For God’s sake, Stratton, don’t even think of blowing it until I let you know for sure. And one last thing. Lawton must not live through this. That’s from the top. Understand?’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ Stratton said and shut down the phone.

  ‘Twenty minutes to Parliament?’ Stratton asked Chaz.

  ‘Twenty, twenty-five,’ Chaz replied.

  ‘We need to get the advantage back,’ Stratton said, thinking out loud mostly. Right now they were just waiting for an opportunity. He had to create one.‘We have to get everyone off the bus,’ he announced.

  The other two didn’t quite understand.

  ‘The bio’s in a briefcase,’ he explained. ‘So’s a chunk of explosive.’

  ‘They’ve got a bomb as well?’ asked Chaz.

  ‘The bomb’s mine.’

  Wilks was trying to keep up with Stratton but finding it hard. ‘We gotta get everyone off the bus wivout the targets knowin’,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘’Ow we gonna do that?’ Chaz asked.

  ‘We take it over,’ Stratton said.‘They’re upstairs.We should be able to clear the bottom at least.’

  ‘And then you’re gonna blow the fuckin’ thing up?’ Chaz asked, a bit shocked at the thought.

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. First let’s catch us a bus.’ He looked to Chaz for a physical response. ‘That means we’ve gotta get in front of it, find a bus stop, and flag it down as normal.’

  ‘Right o,’ Chaz said as he dropped down a gear and simply powered out into the oncoming lane and floored it.

  Wilks gripped the back of both front seats.

  Cars braked, screeched and swerved to avoid them as Chaz overtook one at a time, cutting back into gaps just long enough to let an oncoming vehicle pass then pushing out again and hammering forward.

  As the bus drove under a railway bridge Chaz moved out to overtake it. Its windows strobed past, the passengers bathed in orange light. The bus driver swerved towards the curb and blasted his horn in frustration as he swung back out into his lane. The road opened up ahead of the bus and was clear enough for Chaz to accelerate to over ninety.

  ‘Nine Elms Lane,’ he shouted. Stratton and Wilks were busy concentrating on his driving and looking out for a bus stop.

  They approached the broad intersection that led into Vauxhall.

  ‘Bus stop just before the bridge!’ Wilks shouted and pointed.

  ‘Got it,’ Chaz said. ‘I know where to put the car.’

  He drove directly across the intersection, over the pavement the other side, down a grass verge, and on to a piece of waste ground close to the river. He braked hard and before the vehicle had come to a complete stop the doors were open and they were all clambering out.

  Stratton led the run back up the grass verge in time to see the bus heading for the intersection. Chaz arrived at the top of the verge and Stratton quickly faced him, his back to the bus. As Wilks arrived out of breath he saw the bus and was about to bound off ahead of it.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted Stratton, grabbing Wilks’s jacket. ‘Wait for it to pass.’ He didn’t want the front upper deck to see them running. But that meant they were going to have to sprint as soon as it went by. Wilks was aware of that and, being far too overweight, was already dreading it. He was not given time to think about it. As the bus passed Stratton was off with Chaz alongside him.

  The bus came to a halt at the stop to let a handful of people on and off. It was still a good hundred yards away and it was touch and go as to whether they would make it. Chaz turned on the afterburners and moved ahead of Stratton. The driver punched out a ticket and counted out the change for the last new passenger. Stratton ran as hard as he could, suddenly filled with the fear he had miscalculated the distance and how long it would take to cover it. The passenger took his ticket and started to head down the aisle. The doors gushed with air as they started to close and the bus crept forward. Chaz reached out and flung his arm into the closing gap. The driver saw a hand come through to grab the inside of the door and quickly braked. He gave Chaz a stern look and shook his head as he opened the doors.

  Chaz stepped aboard, regaining his breath and Stratton climbed on behind him.

  ‘One . . . more,’ Stratton said to the driver, standing in the doorway so it couldn’t be closed.

  Wilks staggered up and virtually fell into the bus. Chaz helped him inside and the driver closed the door.

  ‘Is it that important?’ the driver asked Chaz, shaking his head as he pulled away and on to the bridge.

  Stratton went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up and then around the lower deck to get an idea of numbers. Chaz and Wilks joined him. The bus looked about a third full, with seven people in the lower deck.

  ‘You clear upstairs,’ Stratton said to Chaz. ‘They’re near the front.The girl’s pretty, short hair. If the older guy eyeballs you, you quit and get off. You take no chances.’

  Chaz nodded and made his way upstairs.

  ‘Let’s get everyone off,’ he said to Wilks. ‘Not all at once. And don’t let anyone on.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Wilks said.

  Stratton went back to the front of the bus and reached into his breast pocket. The driver glanced at him and indicated a sign that instructed passengers not to hang around the driver and not to talk to him. ‘Go and find a seat, please, sir.’

  Stratton held open a small leather wallet in front of the driver’s face. It was a very official-looking photo identification of Stratton with the words ‘Ministry of Defence’ embossed boldly across it.

  ‘Can you read that?’ Stratton asked.

  The driver frowned, glanced at it long enough to read it, then nodded. Stratton flipped down the picture to reveal a sparkling metal badge with an ornate white enamel face that had the Royal Crest finely crafted on it along with the inscription, ‘MI5’.

  ‘And that?’ Stratton said.

  The driver nodded again, a little slower, his frown disappearing.

  ‘And this?’ Stratton said as he pulled his jacket aside to reveal his pistol in its shoulder holster. The driver’s final nod was enhanced by a facial expression that was most convincing.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Stratton said, hiding his weapon.

  ‘Burrows. Robert Burrows.’

  ‘They call you Bob?’

  ‘I prefer Robert.’

  ‘Listen carefully, Robert. On board your bus, upstairs, are some very dangerous criminals. What we need to do is get everyone off without them knowing. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ the driver said, nodding, a little nervous, but in control.

  ‘I need your help, Robert,’ Stratton continued. ‘I want you to stop at the next bus stop and get out of your seat. I will drive. You will then help my colleague behind me. Don’t tell anyone the real reason they have to get off or they’ll panic. Understood?’

  The driver nodded and swallowed heavily. ‘I understand,’ he said.

  Stratton looked into the distance as they came over the hump of the bridge. ‘You’re going to stop at that bus stop, right?’

  The driver nodded.

  ‘Act natural. Take it easy . . . The people on this bus are in your care, Robert. This is your ship.’

  That was exactly what the driver needed to hear. T
his was his ship and he was the captain, and the passengers were his responsibility.They made movies of this kind of stuff and it was happening to him for real.

  ‘Nice and easy,’ Stratton said as they pulled to a stop.‘Don’t open the front doors.’ Two people were waiting to get on. The driver left the doors closed and climbed out of his seat. Stratton noticed the driver’s jacket on a hook behind the seat. He removed his leather jacket, dumped it behind the seat, and pulled on the jacket that had ample room around the front if a little short in the sleeves. He sat in the driver’s seat and looked at the mirror that reflected the images caught by the convex mirror upstairs. Brennan, Aggy and Lawton were all there at the front. He studied the controls. ‘Middle doors?’ he asked and the driver indicated the lever. Stratton activated it and the doors opened. ‘Remember, no one on, Robert.’

  ‘I understand,’ the driver said. He waved at the two people waiting to get on and indicated they could not. Meanwhile, Wilks went to the three young women nearest the middle door, showed them his badge, and asked them to get off. Surprisingly, they did so without making a fuss. Movies and current events had made the average person far more cooperative in such situations these days. The driver went over to an elderly couple and decided the best way to deal with them was to explain that the bus was stopping where it was because of engine problems and another one was right behind. The old couple got off quite quickly. He repeated the same story to a couple behind who had overheard and they obediently followed.